Waste
by DesolateMoondust
Summary: Just a little extra after 5x07, in regards to how Gail may be feeling.


**Just a little extra after 5x07, in regards to how Gail may be feeling.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Rookie Blue, etc etc.**

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She sits at the bar, a tumbler glass at the ready, but she can't quite bring herself to pick it up. The alcohol taunts with its array of deeply melded colors and fumes – and yet still, she cannot seem to bring the glass to her lips. She can't even seem to grasp it, if she's being honest.

Gail had ordered a heartily dose of Whiskey with the intent to drown her sorrows. The bartender sensing the direction of her venture had poured the drink of choice that he knows by heart, and placed the bottle down next to the tumbler. He walked away with the quiet expectation of a repeat of so many nights spent drinking, with the attempt to finish the bottle.

But now that she sits with drink in her possession, she can't quite figure out where to go from here.

This is new.

This is beyond the need for intoxication.

Because she knows this ill feeling deep inside her chest will remain regardless of whether she drinks or not. And if she's a little more honest, she fears that this ache will only intensify once she consumes the delicious beverage that once upon a time brought her so much freedom.

Drink used to be an escape, a place to discard the pain of the day and just immerse in the now.

But the now hurts.

It hurts when sober, and it certainly hurts when under the influence.

So the glass remains on the bar, collecting dust, not knowing that the very liquid inside will only go to waste.

Waste.

That's exactly how it all feels. That's entirely how her inactivity has swallowed her whole, and left her with this distaste.

_Goodnight, Gail._

All she ever longed for was a good morning, never a goodnight. Never.

But it seems all her relationships have led her to this moment, this finality.

And as much as she can wallow and attempt to place blame on each and every one of them, she knows that deep down inside of her that this waste has come as a consequence of her inability to connect – to allow herself to truly engage and experience and just allow her barriers down for one single second, so that she can be blinded by the sheer joy of what it means to be intimate with another human being.

There's refuge to be taken in the reveal, but now she will never know.

Waste.

That is all she feels now. A waste of potential. A waste of who she could have become. A waste of timing. A waste of a human being.

Everything in her life accumulates to dismantle every carefully considered piece that has been woven into her vest to protect her, because now she knows that she _is_ vulnerable.

Her barriers are down now.

Her defenses, gone.

Because she knows deep inside, that this was different. She _had_ allowed her in. She had allowed herself to be seen. This person who was there, this one who was able to walk straight past the wires, booby-traps, and tapes that kept her heart protected.

It was effortless.

And now equally effortless, she finds herself on her own. Alone.

The drink remains on the bar, the bottle too. It just sits there, waiting. And what scares Gail more than anything, is not that she will not drink it, but the fear that she eventually will, and that she'll one day wake up and be in this exact position once again – a self-fulfilling prophecy: _a sad, sorry woman who had thrown away the most wonderful person she had ever met_.

Her entire life has been conditioned; every damn aspect has been ridiculed and judged by her peers, parents and friends. Gail can recollect all the times that people have chosen to look straight through her, never quite seeing her for who she is. It comes with the name, she knows, being a Peck is heavy burden. But she is also Gail, and no one, bar a few, has managed to truly give Gail the time of day to know who she is. So focused on confirming their suspicions of a cold-hearted bitch that they care not to acknowledge the eyes that reflect back with unwavering loyalty, compassion and _feeling_.

It's like no one can see her. And yet, she was seen. And all it took was one person to completely derail the persona that was so hardened that Gail thought she would be living this way for a very long time. It was like the warmth had finally found her, had wrapped itself around her heart in a glow that made her shine – and the only person who truly got it, and was the one who made it possible in the first place was now the one who had given up on her. And suddenly the brightness dulled. The shell was back. Her habits enforced again. But things are different - Gail is different.

She doesn't want to be numb. She doesn't want to drink. She doesn't want this.

She wants Holly. She wants feeling. She wants to be more than this.

And for the first time, it actually felt possible.

_I'm seeing someone._

Or at least for second there it did.

Gail takes a moment to regard the tumbler filled with alcohol, her hand itching closer until her subconscious clocks on to the fact that her mind will win over. She stops her movement, her hand hovering over the glass. She then pushes it away, fishing out a few notes to pay for the service and swiftly heads for the exit.


End file.
